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Chapter 1

El Clásico

Jonah here, cried Kishore as he passed the ball to me. In a way, one could say that, Kishore, the captain was running away from his responsibilities, but I could not blame him. He was in a tight spot already. Three of the defenders from the opposite team had surrounded him… and man! They were huge! Throughout my day I would see normal sized people. But the minute I set foot on the field, gigantic Greek myths would be coming alive in front of me.

Anyway, coming back, though Kishore had a small opening he did not go for it, instead he kicked the ball towards me. And on my best day, I am just a mediocre football player. I knew it, Kishore knew it and the whole school knew it. As a matter of fact, Kishore knew it even before I had touched the ball for the school team trials.

There were three more minutes to the final whistle and the scoreboard showed 0-0. Keeping the scoreboard even this way was a miracle for my school, let alone scoring a goal. However fate landed the ball in front of me and there was no other option than to take the shot. I was a joke to the whole school but I could not let them add another episode to my already famous loser tales. I never really cared for any of them, but I was tired of being insulted. I had to do something.

I thought about passing the ball back to Kishore. That would serve him well. Let that selfish bastard be at the centre of all the blames. But, no. That moment had passed. Passing the ball back now would be a foolish move.

Sensing the situation well (realising that there was no other option), I kicked the ball. Whoosh... the ball took flight. It hit the crossbar and bounced back. "I’m done, Kishore is gonna kill me," I thought.

Now, there was a scramble in front of the goalpost for the ball. Everyone was kicking at something. Some did not even know where the ball was. Nonetheless, the kicking progressed.

Maybe the stars favoured me that day. The ball appeared once more in front of me. Maybe, after years of neglect, the stars suddenly decided to root for me. Whatever the reasons maybe, I did not have time to analyse them. I took the shot once more. I did not even take aim. I wanted this torment to be over. The ball took flight a second time with tremendous speed. Hitting the keeper right in the chin, (oh! what a delightful sight!) it flew to the nets.

I had just done the impossible. Before the game, my own team would have waged that I would not even touch the ball.

I was overjoyed with emotion, but I tried to come back to my senses. After all, I had to do something cool, something to show off. Though it was a stupid and lucky shot, I could not let anyone else know it. I had to present this as the fruit of my extraordinary talent and years of hard work. Finally, I settled in the Lightning Bolt pose. Yeah! That must have made quite an impression on everyone.

There were just two more minutes to the final whistle. All my team had to do was to kick the ball outside, maybe three or four times. Yeah, for two minutes that would be more than enough. I smiled. "So much for sportsmanship," I thought.

We just wanted to win the game. I did not care how many times I had to kick the ball outside. I would not even have minded a red card right then. I just wanted to hear the final whistle. It was not every other day that I scored a goal. If there was no chance of me getting caught, I would not even have hesitated to kill someone for the win.

So you would kill someone just like that? Just to be the scorer of the winning goal?, I asked myself. Screw that! I would kill someone just to make a decent enough pass. I was getting carried away.

"Okay! Now is not the time for stupid thoughts. Concentrate. CONCENTRATE. This is too big an opportunity to let go. Today I could put on the hero coat if the next two minutes would go well," I told myself.

But daydreaming was the highpoint of my day, and at this crucial time they had no intention of deserting me. I could not help but wonder what the headlines of the next day would be.

‘What a way to answer his critics: JONAH DANIEL, ENTHRALLS WITH A LAST MINUTE MIRACLE TO SAVE THE DAY’

Ah! That would be it. That sounds good. Well, it is a school match. But, what the hell. It is a daydream after all.

Huffing and puffing, the ball was kicked out of the field a few times by my team. Kishore was so charged up that his shot almost deflated the ball.

Two minutes passed. The hell! It was time for the whistle. Kishore was circling the referee. He had his crazy look going on.

Damn! He looked scary. "Dear ref, use the whistle now and there would not be any murder today."

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the referee blew the whistle.

Phew! I saved the day. I prepared myself to be thrown into the air by my teammates. There were a lot of high-fives, chest-bumps, fist-bumps and whatnot. But, no one seemed to notice me.

"Oh! Come on. I deserve something," I screamed in my head.

Those bastards forgot me. I thought of asking them to toss me. But, no. I was desperate, but I could not let them know that. Hell! I was even prepared to pay them (even though I scored the winning goal) (and the only goal!!!)

I deserved to be tossed in the air and for a last minute pride saving goal, that was textbook!

It would have been so nice. There were a lot of girls in the stands. Damn it!

Here’s the situation with me and girls. I like them, they do not like me.

Man! This could have been the beginning of something. :-(

I looked at the stands. My eyes scanned the crowd all over and then it struck me. I had totally forgotten about one girl. She was there to cheer for me. She was 34... and she was my mother.

Her week was so busy and I had compelled her to come watch me play. (Totally stupid idea. I could have easily been ended up looking like a fool out there and then there was the ceremonial ‘Jonah Bashing’ by Kishore, where he would blame me in front of the whole stadium, for the loss- Thank God, that won’t be happening today)

I looked at her. She was waving at me, with a beautiful smile. For years to come, I would remember that look on her face. So proud... of me.

That was it. That was the final good memory I had of her. A day after that game she died of a cardiac arrest. She went peacefully, in her sleep. I was in the next room and I did not know.

Chapter 2

In Nomine Patris; Et Filii; Et Spiritus Sancti

It was a Sunday. She used to wake me up daily, and that day, she did not. By the time I finally woke up, it was eleven in the morning.

Sunday, for me, was a day of tasty dishes. Craving for food, I got up. I called out to her. No answer. I went to the kitchen looking for her. She was not there either. She would be so full of activity on free days and it was so unusual of her to just sit idle. I went to her room.

I saw her from the doorway itself. The curtains were all closed in. On the bedside table there was a bottle of water, a rosary and an alarm clock.

I looked at her face... and somehow... I knew. I just knew.

I do not remember quite well what happened after that. It is all just a blur for me. Some neighbours came, patted me, hugged me, cried in front of me and the discussions started right away. I was sitting in a corner of the room. All through that, not one drop of tear fell from my eyes. I heard murmurs around me about the need for the son to cry.

I am not really sure if they cared about us or if they were getting a kick out of the ceremony. Conducting the event and watching the spectacle of a son huddled in front of his dead mother – it was pure first class drama and they had front-row tickets for it. It is always like this, is it not? – There would be a self-appointed Event Management Committee for every funeral. Not even the dead person would know who half of these jerks were.

People gathered around our house. I vaguely remember a doctor coming in. The moment she left, screams erupted from so many faces which were unknown to me and it echoed off the walls, which were now supposed to be my companions for the rest of my life.

I heard all sorts of discussions around me. I could not recognise most of the people in the house. I bet my Mom could not have either.

A group of relatives surrounded me. An elderly man (probably the Event Manager) said, Do you not have any close relatives, son? I was still sitting on the ground, in the corner, with my head lowered. I was staring at the floor.

Son?

There was a stain on the floor. It was blemished. But, it was still visible.

Son, the elderly man put an arm around me.

I looked at him. Yes?

Do you not have anyone close to inform?

No... It’s... just me.

He looked around at the other people, They were speaking telepathically, maybe. There were some curious facial expressions too. They were figuring out what to say to me next.

My mind wandered.

I never had a father. As far as I knew, my mother was not married either.

I was not a bastard in the classical sense. I knew who my father was. Mr. Paul Zachary. It’s just that, the guy could not hang around alive, until I was born.

I used to crucify Mom with my questions from the time I realised that it was ‘not normal’ to not have a father. I never saw any pictures of him. No stories. No letters. Nothing. He was just not there. It was like he never existed. Then one day... I found her collection of souvenirs.

Jonah, son, the man tried again. (They must have reached a consensus via their telepathy)

Yes? I was still staring at the floor.

What is our next step?

There was a stain on the floor. "Where did that come from?" I thought.

We have to fix a date for the burial. I’ll let the priest know, the man said.

He has already been informed, a woman said, standing next to the man. She must have been his wife.

It was a curiously shaped stain. I remembered it being there forever.

The Event Managers gave up and moved a foot away.

I continued ignoring them. I kept looking at the floor. The stain was troubling me.

For as long as I could remember, my mother was alone. She had no friends. No relatives that I knew of. She had some acquaintances though.

‘The boy has not even cried. He has been sitting there for a long time. Someone should be near him.’ They had reached another consensus.

I was not trying to be brave. Tears just did not come. She was just beside me. I did not feel like crying.

Hours passed and my home became crowded. Some of my friends from school came. They sat around me, silent.

Night came and slowly uneasiness crept on me. I did not know why but I just did not want it to be dark. Maybe it was the prospect of spending a night with no sight in end, with the lifeless body of someone you held so close to heart.

That day, the day I found her souvenirs, I had my worst fight with Mom. Never before I had lost my temper like that. Poor thing. I said so many hurtful things that day. Looking back, I feel ashamed of myself, though I felt my temper was justified at that moment.

There are certain boundaries that you should never cross no matter how much you love anyone. There is always a point of no coming back. Heartfelt apologies and regrets can take care of things maybe up to that point. But once you cross it, that is it. That burden is for the rest of your life. The day I found about him, I dangerously flirted with that boundary. It still remains vivid.

*******

The food was scattered all over the floor. I was shouting on the top of my voice. I had just found a bag full of her keepsakes. Within her old diary, they were safely kept... countless pictures, letters, greeting cards...

All along, you knew, you... I was crying, screaming.

Jo, please calm down. Let me explain, Mom said. She was desperately trying to calm me down.

I was just so angry. I do not know what would have happened if she had not taken the high road. I would have done something that I would have regretted for the rest of my life.

Every time, when someone asked me about my family, I had no answer. Every time a teacher asked me to introduce myself, all I had to say was my name and then some bullshit. The number of times that I had to lie. Do you know what it feels like? DO YOU? I had yelled.

No, Jo. I don’t know... and I am sorry. Please, come, Jo. Let Mom... her voice was so mellow that it felt like something was struck in her throat. She had been carving something for me out of a fruit. My voice must have startled her. The knife fell out of her hand, cutting her finger in the process.

I saw it, but my anger did not let me register it.

I DO NOT WANT YOUR APOLOGY, WOMAN, I snapped at her.

Jo, she was shocked.

The number of times she had used that knife to create wonders out of fruits, just to see me smile. I did not bother to stop even as her hands bled. Anger makes you forget things.

ALL MY LIFE... ALL MY LIFE, I CARRIED THE SHAME THAT MY FAMILY CONSISTED OF AN UNMARRIED MOTHER... AND HER BASTARD SON

Please, stop, Jo. Tears rolled down her cheek. Her face lowered.

Am I hurting you? AM I HURTING YOU? I HELD MY SILENCE ALL THESE YEARS AND THE MOMENT I OPEN UP, I AM HURTING YOU? The insensitive prick that I was, I did not stop.

WHERE IS HE NOW? I NEED TO SEE THIS SON OF A BITCH. NOW, rage engulfed me and I found myself screaming with a piece of broken plate in my hand.

He is dead.

As soon as the words came from her lips, she knelt down, with her hands covering her face. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Jo.

We had a king-sized cupboard in the room with such a shiny carved mirror. We were standing opposite to that.

The moment she knelt down, that’s when I saw it in the mirror. I was towering over her, with a sharp weapon in my hand. She was crouched, weeping, her face in her hands.

Most of the time when we hurt people, that’s what is really missing. A mirror. A third person view. And that day, I so badly needed it. I did not realise it until she knelt down.

The piece of broken plate was an unfortunate coincidence. I just wanted to break something. But the unprecedented level of rage that I was in, it was dangerous.

I looked in the mirror and saw an arrogant selfish jerk. I never thought about how hard it was for her. Being a single mother. Being an unmarried woman, with a child, in the hell of a society that we live in. She bore insults, judgemental eyes, sniggers and comments.

All I had to do was leave a column empty, and I was bitching about it. She always did well for me. For as long as I could remember, I had food on my table and a roof over my head. I never had to face any financial, or for that matter, any real crisis... and this was how I repaid her.

The broken plate slipped from my hand. I ran towards her, crying. Ma, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry... I should not have… words got stuck in my throat.

The rage had left me, finally. Was it the mirror? Was it the words that he was dead? Or was it a combination of the both? I am not sure, but finally, the rage did leave me.

I had knelt down too. She was crying on my shoulder. The immense vocabulary that was helping me just a few moments before, had abandoned me. All that came from my lips were, Sorry Ma, I am so sorry… I could not believe how cruel I had been.

Days passed by and she got past that. I still had some sleepless nights. I hoped to God that she forgave me.

*******

Someone was serving light refreshments to all the people, who had gathered at the house. I was not really in a mood for snacks, but the woman beside me would not take no for an answer She took it as her life’s mission to feed me then and there. No matter how much I rejected she did not give up. Eventually, I gave in just to make her shut up.

Just as if by cue, the EM committee gathered around me once more, and produced a fresh batch of tears. Someone started wailing. The punch lines were, ’died so young’ and ‘no one to look after the poor kid’.

After some time (when they saw that I was not joining them), they moved onto the next programme, as if exactly per schedule. And this segment was named, Finance.

Jo, they began. I did not really like strangers calling me that. I tried to express my dislike with what I thought was, my rude face.

Exactly as I had imagined, they did not stop. They stuck with ‘Jo’. What really pissed me off (more than ‘Jo’) was their mock pity. These people would not even skip a meal for me or my mother and they were acting all concerned and sad.

What about the funeral arrangements? The money ...?

It’s always about the money. Isn’t it? The point where the words get stuck.

I have a major operation coming up and I had to pay in advance.

Then followed the most cliché-ridden list of excuses and everyone chipped in. ‘Kids’ school fees, housing loan... I mean, they were not even making an effort. Not even one original excuse.

I did not even care if they attended the funeral, let alone have their money. There was no point in giving ear to the excuses. I did not need their money. Period.

They stood there, inventing excuses out of thin air, to convince me that they were the most righteous people in the world, unfortunately with a shortage of liquid money.

Eventually one of the old men concluded the ‘Limited Finance’ presentation with We are so, so, so sorry for your loss, Jo.

Of course you are, you patronising bastard – I wanted to scream at him. A sucker punch too along with the line, and it would have been perfect.

Mom was an orphan. She was thrown away as a two-day-old baby at the steps of a convent. She grew up there, was raised and looked after by nuns. She used to say that instead of one, fate had blessed her with countless mothers.

After turning eighteen, she moved out of the convent. With money that she had saved from giving tuitions, Mom started a retail store. It was around this time that she fell in love with my father.

He was an engineer. Shortly after meeting Mom, he got a good job overseas.

They were planning to get married during his first vacation, and that’s when tragedy struck. His flight crashed. Burst and burnt in mid-air, tearing up Mom’s life, and taking away the only man she ever loved.

It took her some time to get over that.

Ever since then, Mom had been alone. Ever since then, her sole motivation was making a good life for me. Her retail store slowly turned into a moderately successful supermarket, situated a few blocks down our house.

Money was really not an issue, thanks to Mom.

The moment I let the EM Committee know that, the recitals began. It was pandemonium. Jonah, we should do floral arrangements. Jonah, how many guests will be there? We should plan the seating. Jonah, who will be the Padre? Which wood should the coffin be made of? Jonah.... (blah…blah…), Jonah..., Jonah....

Though noisy, the discussion was so structured (even though I did not give a damn). After the initial commotion, the competing arguments continued, We should go with Roses. No, we should go with Jasmine. We should prepare seating arrangement for 200 people. No, for 150 people. The discourse went on and on. These people were experienced.

At one point when an argument broke out regarding which shop provided the best coffin, I intervened with a ‘shush’. It just came out. It was involuntary. Nevertheless, it did the trick. I handed their leader a bunch of five-hundred rupee notes.

The discussions shifted to a convenient location (out of my earshot). Ten minutes later, everyone dispersed. "Consensus," I figured. The main group scattered and recruited foot soldiers for their ground work. Some volunteered. Another round of briefing and off they went. I honestly did not know whether to be annoyed at them for creating such a fuss, or to be thankful to them for doing what was supposedly my job.

I was so tired, mentally exhausted. I did not want to leave her side. But this was my last chance to do something for her and I could not let it slip away. I fetched my wallet and got out of my house.

Condolences poured in as I appeared at the front door. A huge crowd had turned out. I felt kind of happy for her.

I had to get out of there and it was proving to be quite a daunting task. Son, where are you going at this hour? You need to be in the house, a lady from the neighbourhood advised me.

Mrs. Reeta, I have to... I stuttered.

I have to let one of her friends know. I do not have any contact numbers, I recovered.

Which friend? she demanded.

It’s Ms. Jyothi. You do not know her. She lives down the road. I will be back in five minutes, I continued and lies were flying around.

I could have just walked away. I really did not need her permission. Still I lingered.

"Walk away, man. You do not need to please her. Your mom is gone. Just deal with it. This woman is not the solution. You are not getting a replacement," I told myself.

I excused myself, walked out the gate and cycled on the straight road ahead.

"Where should I go?" My mind drew blanks. I did not have much time. I had to be back at the house as soon as possible.

Nothing came to my mind. With no options left, I decided to ride to the market and the mall nearby.

Five minutes of pedalling and I found myself in the mall parking area.